Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 103141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 516(@200wpm)___ 413(@250wpm)___ 344(@300wpm)
“That was really fucking stupid, Doc, but I guess you had to get it out of your system. Next time, I won’t go as easy on you.” He rolls off me fluidly, grabs the gun, then sits on the porch, legs out in front of him, weapon in hand.
He’s breathing heavily, and I can see red starting to seep through the T-shirt he’s wearing, right over where he’d been shot. His lip is bleeding, too. He wipes it with the back of his hand, dropping his head back, eyes surprisingly closed. Is he trying to compose himself? In pain? He has to be, and as much as I don’t want to say the words, there’s no stopping myself. “Come on. I need to look at your wound again. You’re bleeding out.”
“I wouldn’t be if you didn’t try to escape.”
“Do you expect me to sit around and wait for you to kill me?”
He opens his eyes at that, gaze snagging on mine. There’s something very intense about the way Rian looks at me, like he has the ability to sift through my mind and find things that I don’t want anyone to see, but I don’t let myself look away. I’m not giving him that kind of power over me.
“You have to die. There’s no other choice.”
“Dying isn’t an option for me.”
“I guess we’re at an impasse, then.” He winces, guilt I wish I didn’t have, especially for someone as vile and evil as him, wins against the part of me that wants him to suffer.
“Come on. You’re losing blood. We’ll get back to how you’re going to kill me later. I need to look at your wound.”
He eyes me in this way that makes it impossible not to see the curiosity there. What is this man thinking? The one who stalked me, kidnapped me, then made sure I didn’t have food allergies before feeding me, only to promise to kill me. I can’t even pretend to have him figured out.
He’s hurting. If I tried again, I might be able to overpower him, to get the gun from him, to leave him here alone and injured…but instead, I stand up and hold my hand out for him. Rian stares at it a moment, as if he’s unsure if he can trust me.
“I’m not the killer out of the two of us,” I say. “I’m the healer.”
His brow furrows, the paleness of his skin getting worse.
Finally, Rian reaches for my hand, and I help him to his feet, then into the living room. His slacks are open, clearly not having taken the time to close them. “Do you still need to go to the bathroom?” I ask.
“Later,” he replies, breathily.
“Towels?”
“Bathroom.”
Again, I tell myself that now would be the perfect time to try and escape…again, but instead, I find myself going back to the bathroom we were just in, getting towels and a washcloth.
Rian is still sitting where I left him, and I grab my medical bag, using the scissors inside to cut the T-shirt open. He smirks down at them. “I didn’t know you had those. Now would be the perfect time to use them on me if you plan to.”
I ignore him, tired of telling him that I’m not him, that I’m better than that. I clean his shoulder, then place one of the towels down on the couch. “Lie down.”
Still with the curiosity he often wears with me, Rian nods, then lets me help him into position. I clean the front of his wound again, wishing I had more supplies here with me, then press all the gauze I have against his wound, a washcloth on top of it, and sit beside him, putting direct pressure on his injury.
“Did you always want to be a doctor?” he asks, surprising me.
“Surgeon,” I remind him, and he gives a small, weak smirk, peeking out from the center of his short, dark facial hair. He’s a broad guy, dark hair, maybe ten or so years older than me, but his eyes tell a different story. Those say he’s seen enough to be a hundred years or more.
“Surgeon. I’ve always heard you guys are cocky assholes.”
“We are.” I shrug, wondering if I want to reply or not, but then I do. “Yes. I remember being—Jesus, I must have been no more than four or five years old and always trying to fix everything on my mom.”
“Was she sick?” he asks in a tone that tells me he’s honestly curious.
“No, but she would pretend she was. The number of times I worked on a stubbed toe would surprise you.” I smile. “She was great like that. She would do anything to make me happy. She loved nothing more than being a mom.” She always told me there’s nothing I couldn’t do, that I would be the best doctor in the world, if for no other reason than my heart was so big and I loved so much, that I would put people at ease. They would know they could trust me with their lives.